


Harken The Moon, Lower The Tides

by FolleDeJoie



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, I don't make the rules sorry, M/M, Sleazebag Raymond de Merville, alright, fisherman!ciaran, mentioned cathal and rua, seamster!diarmuid, soft boys who just need a hug, trapper!mute, unspecified time setting, who shall make an appearance i swear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:41:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27015922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FolleDeJoie/pseuds/FolleDeJoie
Summary: With the seas running barren and the winter drawing ever closer, Diarmuid and his father aren't expecting to face the season as easily as they had in previous years. A chance encounter with the mysterious new resident of their small town might see their tides turning, but for better or worse is yet to be seen...-Originally written for Diarmute au! week, I will try and post as much of this as I can as soon as I can, but real life schedule's are the absolute worst.  (unbeta'd and edited as much as possible at 12am)
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 19
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

“Ahoy there, lad!” A distant voice called out across the waves.

Diarmuid jolted in surprise and he hissed at the sharp dot of pain on his thumb where the sewing needle had slipped in his fingers. He brought his thumb up to his mouth, sucking at the small stab wound as he looked out to the calm ocean waves in delight. His father stood on the deck of their small fishing boat, giving him a small wave when he saw that he’d finally caught his son’s attention, before turning back to tug at the nets.

Diarmuid tugged his thumb out of his mouth, satisfied that he was no longer bleeding, and got back to sewing the rather large hole in his father’s shirt. His skills were no match for what his mother’s had been before she passed, but he enjoyed losing himself in the repetitive movements and the satisfaction of seeing a job well done. He could feel that winter was chasing the curtails of autumn, and the necessity of keeping warm was a great incentive to fetch out the ancient sewing box.

By the time he had looped the final knot of the thread, biting off the end and admiring his handiwork, his father had already pulled up to their small jetty. He pushed himself up from the large rock he had been sat on and strolled across the pebbled beach towards their small home.

He made sure to stoke fire, throwing on another log for good measure as he put the heavy kettle back onto the rack in the fireplace to warm it through again. He replaced the sewing box back into its spot over the mantle and threw the shirt over the arm of one of the wooden kitchen chairs.

A cool draft breezed through the room as his father quickly entered, shrugging off his raincoat with a groan. He ambled across towards the fireplace, ruffling his son’s hair as he passed him, and rubbed his hands together over the warmth of the flames.

“What news?” Diarmuid asked, pulling out two chipped mugs from the small cabinet and a small bowl for the leftover soup he’d made for them the day before.

His father sighed heavily, slumping on the wooden chair nearest the hearth as he rubbed a hand over his eyes wearily.

“Same as the last.” He said, voice laden with exhaustion, and Diarmuid couldn’t conceal his worried frown. The last few months had seen them severely lacking in hauls, lucky if his father even caught a net full of fish that were normally plentiful in the area. They’d managed to scrape by, eating what they couldn’t sell and tightening their belts if their bread didn’t stretch as far. It wasn’t the first time that it had happened, the seas as temperamental as always, but this time had been the longest they’d seen yet.

The last few times that his father had gone out, leaving far earlier and returning far later than he’d ever done, he’d only managed to fill a small bucket’s worth of salmon. It had been enough for them both to live off for the week, Diarmuid drying and salting the few he could spare to make them go further, but not enough to sell for a healthy profit. A handful of coins, if they were lucky, and that barely covered the cost to keep the boat running.

Diarmuid had watched on helplessly as his father’s laughter lines transformed into a perpetual frown, shoulder’s sagging under the weight of his worries. He’d tried to earn what he could looking after the little ones in the neighbouring town, mending as many seams as possible, but it was the time of year that had people gripping their purses a little tighter.

David poured the steaming tea into the mugs, passing the largest over to his father and perching on the table beside him as they cradled the warmth into their cold fingers.

“It’ll be alright, da’. We’ll figure something out.” Diarmuid said softly. Ciaran huffed out a laugh and patted his son’s knee.

“That we will, my boy.” He said with a tired smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “That we will.”

Diarmuid bit his lip and turned to the pot of hearty soup on the side, spooning out a decent portion into the small bowl and handing it over to his father. The older man nodded his thanks and tucked in as his son leaned back against the counter.

“Maybe…” Diarmuid started, biting at his nail nervously as he stared into the horizon through the window. “Maybe I should go work at the manor. Surely it won’t be that-”

Ciaran scowled and his spoon clanged noisily as it fell into his bowl.

“Lord help me, you’ll do no such thing.” He stated firmly, pointing at his son warningly. “As long as there’s breath in my body, I’ll not have you under the heel of the De Merville’s. I forbid it.”

“Dad…” He sighed, trying to rein in the irritation at his father’s misguided pride. “It’ll be scrubbing the floors and airing the drapes. Maybe helping out in the kitchens.”

His father scoffed and picked up the spoon, clenching it hard enough for his knuckles to turn white as he angrily shovelled the stew into his mouth.

Diarmuid swallowed, his resolve cracking under his father’s tense frame. He reached over and laid a hand over the elder’s, smoothing his thumb over the tight knuckles. “We need the money, Da’.”

“No money’s worth grovelling to those arrogant swine, _boy_.” Ciaran cursed, and Diarmuid’s hand flinched back at his unusual display of anger. The older man took a deep breath and exhaled raggedly, leaning back on his chair and swiping a hand over his eyes.

They sat in silence for a few moments, the wind whistling through the splintered shutters as the logs crackled in the hearth. Diarmuid took in his father’s exhausted frame, the new patches of grey in his beard and the low slump of his shoulders. It had been just the two of them for so long, and they’d suffered through harsh times in the past, but he realised that he’d never seen his father looking so… tired.

He crossed the small distance between them and leaned down to curl his arms around his shoulders, hugging him tightly from behind. He buried his face in his father’s old jumper and the older man sighed, patting his son’s hands comfortingly.

“We’ll be fine, lad.” He murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of his curls. “The tides are sure to turn soon enough.”

-

He’d expected his father to stay home for a while and recuperate from his time at sea, but only a few days later saw him packing up his gear and double checking his trusty equipment.

“I’ll not be gone long, a week at most.” He said, tightening the laces of his ancient boots. “I’m certain that we’ll have better luck further out on the waves, maybe even find a big enough shoal for this time of year. I feel it in my bones, lad.”

Diarmuid was already arguing with him even as the elder shouldered his heavy travel pack and finished the last dregs of tea from his mug with a satisfied sigh and a smack of his lips. Ciaran seemed to delight in pretending to ignore his fussing, crossing through the front door as his son trailed behind him and clucking like a mother hen.

Diarmuid was still fretting and trying to get his point across that _Daddy you know the waters are harsher in the winter, what happens if there’s a storm, what’s he supposed to do in the meantime_ , as they reached the end of the wooden jetty. Ciaran threw his bags on board and turned around to face his red-faced son, his indignant frown belying the worry in his eyes.

“I’ve asked Cathal to check in on you while I’m gone, make sure you’re not getting in too much trouble.” Ciaran smiled and ruffled his son’s windswept curls, pressing a small kiss to the crown of his head.

Diarmuid scoffed but threw his arms around his father, squeezing as tightly as he could before he let him disentangle and board the fishing boat.

After his father had disappeared on the horizon, Diarmuid forced himself out of the cocoon of their home and began the winding trek towards the town. He had put off buying most of the things they could live without while their income had stagnated, but they were quickly scraping the last remnants of their essentials. With his father away for the next few days, Diarmuid decided it was the perfect time to deliver the miscellaneous wares that he had mended and use the coin to stock up on supplies.

Despite the brisk autumn wind, the walk and the warmth of the sun soon had him sweating under his aged cloak and thin jacket.

The bright morning seemed to have lifted the spirits of even the dreariest miser, and Diarmuid smiled and waved politely at the vendors and townsfolk that he knew. After dropping off his finished products to their respective wearers and with a slightly heavier purse, he meandered on into the heart of the market to check out the goods. It wasn’t a large town by any means, and for the most part the stalls had been manned by the same vendors since the dawn of time, but every so often a travelling merchant would stop by on their way towards the bustling port a few days ride from them. Diarmuid always felt a thrill at not knowing what sort of foreign delights or wares he would stumble upon, but even more so at the prospect of capturing the new tales of the outside world that they would recount.

As he entered the semi-bustling square, his eyes wandered past the usual crowd and landed on the large stall at the very edge of the marketplace. He could make out a broad man almost hidden behind the leathers and furs that surrounded him, sat down behind his counter and seemingly focussed on something other than his patrons. A few marketgoers drew near to the stand but never seemed to linger, instead side-stepping the vendor and moving on towards their customary haunts.

He forced his excitement down for the meantime while he spoke to the usual crowd and stocked up on his long-needed ingredients and trinkets, exchanging pleasantries and enquiries into his and his father’s well-beings. He even managed to pick up a few new mending jobs, and a custom order for the butcher’s daughter’s Sunday dress to be altered in time for the winter festival. With a warm heart and a loaded satchel, he finally reached the mysterious newcomer.

“Good morning,” Diarmuid grinned, greeting the stranger with barely bridled enthusiasm. The darker man glanced up from his whittling, eying him warily for a few moments before tilting his head in acknowledgement. Diarmuid’s smile softened and he swallowed down his nerves, taking it as a positive cue. “I haven’t seen you around here before. Have you been in the area long?”

The stranger shook his head, dark eyes watching him as the young man started to browse over the goods on his stall. There were furs piled neatly on top of one another, apparently sorted by their different lengths and textures. He recognised soft rabbit down, soft and glossy as if it were still alive, but his focus was drawn to the deep red of a fox pelt that stood out from the earthen browns.

“You seem to be having great luck for this time of the season.” Diarmuid gestured to the pelts and dried meats that hung from his stall. The man shrugged and lowered his gaze back down to his hands, deftly whittling away at the small block of driftwood and brushing the shavings onto the cobbled ground.

Diarmuid worried his lower lip and looked back at the goods. He’d met most of the other fishermen that would sometimes work with his father on the bigger hauls, and a few of those men had used their words sparingly but with great care: he wondered if maybe this trapper was the same, comfortable with himself and his own silence, or if he had somehow offended him in the few minutes of their meeting. Without meaning to, Diarmuid’s hand had gravitated towards the fox pelt, petting it comfortingly and revelling in the silken touch.

It felt amazing under his cold palms, and he knew that given the right design it would make the warmest pair of gloves. The sensation beneath his fingertips brought forth the sudden childhood memory of his mother’s deep auburn locks hidden beneath her winter hat, her hands guiding his own as they stroked the farmer’s portly cat.

With every stroke of his hand through the fur he felt his spirits rising, his fingers twirling shapes and gently twisting the strands into soft peaks. He glanced up to see that the bearded stranger had once more paused in his carving and was watching him with a curious expression. He had expected him to be annoyed at the way he was fondling the man’s merchandise, but he made no sign that he should stop. Emboldened by this allowance, he smiled timidly and continued his petting.

“My da’ says this winter’s set to be a hard one,” Diarmuid said, trying to keep his nerves at a minimum. “I’m sure the townsfolk will appreciate your fine wares when the cold snaps set in.”

The trapper’s eyes flicked down, frowning as he took in his light jacket and weatherworn cloak, ill-suited for the weather that was to come. He gestured with his small knife to the pelt under Diarmuid’s hand.

“Oh!” Diarmuid exclaimed as he pulled his hand away as if it burned. “Sorry, I can’t… that is, I haven’t got…” he floundered as he tried to dispel his shame at the lightness his coin-purse. There was a hint of amusement peeking out from the corner of the stranger’s mouth, a suggestion of a smile that had his throat suddenly very dry.

He tampered down his blush as best he could as he tried to focus on the reason for his presence at the stall.

“I just wanted to say that if you need anything mending or darning while you’re in the area, you can bring it to me. Me and my Da’ live about an hour’s walk East, by the coast, he’s a fisherman you see, but… anyway, I’m very good, ask anyone, and I don’t charge much-”

His speech was interrupted by a pointed cough to his right. Turning, his heart dropped at the sight of the Lord’s son Raymond, dressed in his finery that he’d brought back from his recent trip to the Orient and flanked by his usual bodyguards. He took an instinctive step back at the unexpected closeness of the older man, hip bumping into the stall behind him.

The aristocrat gave the stranger an assessing once over, eyebrow quirked in disdain, before turning his attention to where Diarmuid was shifting nervously.

“Did I hear that you’ve been selling your _wares_ again, cheri?” A sharp smile curled on his lips as he spoke. Something slimy curled in the younger man’s gut at his tone, and his eyes glanced self-consciously to where the trapper was watching the newcomer with a deep frown. Raymond casually leaned on the stall, smirking at the stranger as if they were old friends. “Our little tailor really does have amazing hands for it, wouldn’t you agree?”

“What do you want, _my lord?_ ” Diarmuid grit through his teeth, face burning bright with humiliation as he forced himself not to hide his hands in his pockets. Raymond laid a hand over his heart in a mockery of offense, slapping the other on the fox pelt Diarmuid had been entranced with earlier.

“Can a man not browse a vendor’s goods these days? Especially one who’s actually willing to pay proper coin for them…” He said, quirking a brow pointedly at Diarmuid’s weathered boots. The implication of the barb thrown at him stung despite his anger towards the older man, and some of it must’ve shown in his expression as he watched Raymond’s eyes twinkle delightedly. The older man gripped the pelt with rough hands, fingers digging into the fur and tugging at it crudely.

The vendor abruptly stood from where he had been perched on a stool, the harsh scraping of the legs against the cobbles drawing the attention of all in the nearby vicinity. Diarmuid had to quell his gasp at finally seeing how tall he was, the broadness of his shoulders and the sheer size of him seeming to dwarf the men around him. Even the lord’s son seemed startled, but he quickly collected himself and faced the stranger indignantly.

“A problem, _monsieur_?” He asked haughtily, the men behind him shifting and laying their hands on their pistol holsters.

The vendor paid them no mind as his gaze flickered to where Diarmuid was still uncomfortably stood by the edge of his stall, hands clenched at his sides. The darker man considered him for a moment with an unreadable expression, before frowning and squaring his shoulders as he turned once more to face the nobleman.

He held out the hand that wasn’t closed around the small knife, but his palm wasn’t turned up as if to receive payment; Diarmuid realised with a start that he wanted the fur _back_. The large hand hovered steadily between them, poised for Raymond’s next move.

Raymond eyed him with a sharp annoyance, and all pretences were dropped in an instant.

“Keep it.” He laughed, chucking the rumpled pelt uncaringly into the bigger man’s chest. “I’m sure there’s a beggar out there that needs a new rag.”

His tongue flicked out sharply like a snake, wetting his lips as he moved to once again crowd into Diarmuid’s space. The younger man cringed up, finally lowering his gaze to the floor as a hand clenched the strap of his satchel tightly.

“You’re looking mighty thin, chéri. If it’s coin you need, there’s always work to be done at my father’s manor.” Raymond’s fingers ghosted over the backs of his trembling hands, his half-lidded eyes feasting on his unease. “I’m sure those talented hands of yours could give the silverware a good polishing…”

A sudden bang had the men jolting, attention drawn back to where the vendor loomed over them. He was glaring at the nobleman, his hand gripping the small knife that he had just jammed into the wooden table. He grunted and gestured at him to leave, eyes blazing and posture demanding no refusal.

Raymond scowled and stood back, his guards seeming to remember their jobs at the last second as they scrambled into place beside him once more. Through his haze of panic and discomfort, Diarmuid was curious and absolutely thrilled to see how the nobleman’s usual show of force seemed severely undermined when faced with the glowering hunter. For a brief moment he had the wildest belief that the man could decimate an army and come through unscathed.

Raymond sneered and spat at the ground, and with a final lurid wink at Diarmuid, he and his bodyguards made their way in the direction of the tavern.

Diarmuid watched their retreat with bated breath, his hands twisted around the strap of his satchel. Once they were finally out of sight he inhaled roughly, trying to focus on steadying his rabbit heart and making a concerted effort of relaxing his bunched muscles.

“I’m truly sorry about that… I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble.” He glanced around the area and tried to ignore the other marketgoers that had been watching the scene unfold with barely concealed intrigue. It wasn’t every day that someone stood up to the young De Merville and came through unscathed, and Diarmuid knew that whispers and gossip were already making their way through the market.

The trapper blinked slowly and turned his gaze away from where he’d been staring at the spot that Raymond had disappeared and shook his head. He gave Diarmuid a brief once over, a worried frown creasing his brow as he honed on his still trembling fists. Diarmuid cleared his throat and hastily reached for his purse, giving him a weak smile as he stepped once more to the front of the stall.

“I…” He started, eyes darting between the trapper and his furs, prying one hand free to gently take one of the smaller rabbit pelts from the pile. “These are beautiful and… please, allow me to…” He rifled through the purse with shaky fingers, pulling out more coins than he could really afford.

His traitorous hands disobeyed him and he cursed as the coins slipped from his clammy grasp, scattering across the stones. He quickly kneeled to gather them before they rolled too far, his cheeks blazing in embarrassment at how clumsy and foolish he must appear. A shadow fell over him and he glanced up in time see the trapper crouched in front of him. A large hand covered his own, stopping his shaky movements in their tracks. The man’s eyes were kind and knowing as they met his own, and Diarmuid finally exhaled for the first time since the unwelcome arrival of the aristocrat.

The older man’s smile seemed rusty but soft where it lay on his lips, and Diarmuid could feel his own curling up to mirror him. The man’s eyes widened briefly before he nodded seemingly to himself, bringing his gaze back down to the cobbles and grunting as he reached over to pick up the few remaining coins hiding beneath the stall. Once they were all accounted for, he took Diarmuid’s hand in his own and guided him upwards to stand.

He turned the younger man’s palm upwards and placed all of the coins in the centre, bar one: he held it up between two fingers and gestured towards the rabbit pelt before slipping it into his breast pocket.

“Oh, no…” Diarmuid tried gently, his thumb gliding over his remaining coin. “That’s far too little.”

The trapper shook his head resolutely and grabbed the pelt, stepping towards him and opening the satchel with deft fingers. Diarmuid’s breath caught in his throat at how close they were, his eyes lingering over the man’s soft curls, the broken bridge of his nose, the dark pink of his lips that stood out starkly against his thick beard. The man folded the pelt meticulously and placed it among the rest of Diarmuid’s purchases before latching the satchel. He looked up from beneath dark lashes to meet the seamster’s gaze, and Diarmuid could feel his heart start to pound heavily in his chest once again. His stomach fluttered wildly in a way he’d never felt before and he found himself beaming at the man’s shy, answering smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciaran's time away gets Diarmuid thinking
> 
> (Alternatively, a soft little chapter as I decide what I'm doing next)

“How are you keeping, out here by yourself?” Cathal inquired the next day, busying himself with putting away the pots and pans that they’d cleaned up after lunch. Diarmuid groaned and leaned back on his rickety chair, raking a hand through his wayward curls and tugging at a few knots he found.

“I know what you’re trying to do, and it’s not going to work.” he said, an eyebrow raised in the fabric seller’s direction as he dried his hands on a rag. “I appreciate the offer, Cathal, but despite what you think I am capable of taking care of myself.”

“I never said you weren’t,” He replied, picking up the still steaming mugs of tea and setting them on the table as he sat back down. “It’s just that… I hate the idea of you being lonely all the way out here by yourself, and I know your da’ would feel better knowing you were among friends while he was away …”

“It’s only been a day, you've barely given me the chance to feel lonely.” Diarmuid interrupted, sitting up a little straighter and skimming over the blatant attempt to pull at his heartstrings. Cathal regarded him knowingly over the rim of his mug.

“The offer still stands,” The older man said softly, taking a sip of his tea. “I just want you to know that you’re welcome to come keep us company at any time, that’s all.”

Diarmuid rolled his eyes but he nodded all the same, cradling the soothingly warm mug between his hands.

“You really don’t have to worry, Cathal…” Diarmuid took a long sip of his tea, “I’ve got enough to keep me busy for the next few days, but I’ll pop in when I’m finished. How does that sound?”

The man nodded but still had an air of uncertainty around him that had Diarmuid’s curiosity stirring. Cathal wasn’t usually so keen to push him into visiting, the man known to enjoy his own company for the most part. As Diarmuid focussed, he finally began to notice the uneasy downturn of his lips and the way he was picking nervously at his nails. Diarmuid sat up a little straighter and took another sip of his tea.

“Any tasty news for me while I have you?” He asked casually, and Cathal frowned into his mug in thought.

“Nothing worth mentioning, except… no, no, it’s just a silly rumour…” the older man said softly, and Diarmuid inched forward in his seat.

“Oh no, that’s cruel of you to leave me on tenterhooks like that! If you’re not careful I’ll tell my da’…” he said with false indignation. Cathal shook his head and let out a small chuckle around a large sip of his tea.

“I should know by now that it’s a fool’s errand to keep things away from those keen ears of yours.” He said, placing his mug on the table. “But if you must know, there’s been talk of beasts in the next town over.”

“Beasts?” Diarmuid exclaimed, mind whirling. “What do you mean?”

“A few of the livestock have gone missing, people claiming they’ve seen shadows and tails and fairies in the woods, you know what people are like. One fox takes a hen and the next thing you know people are crying wolf.”

Even as he recounted the rumour mill there was a shadow on his smile, like there was something he was trying to hold back. Cathal had always been a man who felt deeply and easily, his emotions soft and visible to all those around him; Diarmuid had seen him content, afraid, tired but never so… haunted.

Diarmuid reached over and placed his palm over the other man’s knuckles, halting the nervous picking of his nail beds.

“What’s happened, Cathal?”

The older man smiled wanly and patted his hand. “Nothing for you to worry about. My imagination runs free when I’m home alone, too much house and not enough noise.”

Diarmuid felt a small flicker of guilt at his earlier reticence to pass by and see him. His friend and house mate Rua had ventured into the city for the better part of three weeks to restock on his wares, leaving Cathal to take care of the shop and keep an eye on the empty forge. It happened every few months and Cathal had never seemed to mind before, but Diarmuid realised that it had been the longest time yet. He thought about how he felt when his father had been gone for longer than a week, how the house seemed this side of too big and the shadows seemed to loom.

Diarmuid nodded and squeezed his hand in solidarity before changing the topic, leading them into easier conversation, and for a while as they recounted their own news and old stories heard a thousand times before.

When the older man eventually packed up his things and shuffled into his large sweater they both seemed a little lighter, but when Diarmuid opened the front door to see him out he noticed the way the book seller gripped his coat a little tighter and how his eyes darted around the clearing warily.

"Mind how you go, lad" Cathal said as they hugged their goodbye. "Look after yourself."

As Diarmuid finally waved him off and shut the door on his retreating figure, he tried not to linger on the tightness he'd seen in the man’s shoulders or the brisk pace to his step.

The next day was overcast in a way that made the sky appear as was one huge grey canvas looming over the land beneath it. Thankfully there was no sign of the dark thunderclouds that heralded the harsh storms common to the area, however it _was_ cold enough for him to dig out his thick woollen blanket and throw a couple of the larger logs from their dwindling pile on the hearth.

He’d risen later than he usually would with his father around and had lazily pottered about the house and the garden as he tended to his chores. Once he’d been satisfied that he wouldn’t have to worry about his pumpkins and sprouts for the next few days he’d decided that the weather called for a lazy day indoors, sat next to the fire with his sewing in his lap.

He had plenty to keep himself occupied with the work he’d picked up the day before, and his thoughts started to wander with each familiar stitch. He thought about what to make for dinner, about his garden, about the shutters that had come loose that he’d need to somehow fix. He was handy enough with a tool and could patch up most things, but the ancient shutters were much too high and heavy to take down himself. In the meantime, he would just have to live with the shuddering of the wooden panels as they rattled against the window in the harsh night-time winds.

After a while, the comforting heat of the fire finally rolling through the room and the warmth of his blanket had his mind growing drowsy. He set the sewing on his lap and let his eyelids droop as he gazed through the kitchen window and towards the choppy waves beyond.

He could faintly hear the crashing of the waves upon the shore, the soft crackle and pop of the logs on the hearth, and he allowed himself a moment to shut his eyes, and…

_The orange dappled leaves of the elms and birch that surrounded the clearing swished in the heavy breeze. The sky glowed that eerie white that accompanied overcast mornings, but it wasn’t cold like he expected it to be. It felt like summer, deep heat spreading over his face and his exposed arms, and he tilted his face up towards it with a smile. After being cold for so long he rejoiced in the hazy warmth that spread over him, leaning back into the soft ground beneath him._

_His fingers dipped into the fresh soil and twirl along the blades of grass, his arms spreading out and his smile growing as he basked in the glorious sense of peace he felt. Hidden away deep in the rolling hills and sprawling forests he can finally let himself relax, a lifetime away from the prying and pitying eyes of his peers. He sighed and inhaled the fresh scents of the clearing, ready to languish forever in his own slice of heaven, when he felt a tremble beneath his fingers. It started out small like the beating of a hummingbirds’ wings and hastened with every second until his hand was almost vibrating off the ground._

_He frowned and turned his head to look around the clearing for what it could be and felt a spark of panic fill him as he caught a glimpse of golden eyes peering back at him from beyond the birch. He could only make out a fuzzy dark blur, but the eyes stood out in the clearest detail: flashing in the light in the way he’d seen animals do at night, the reflective stare of a predator._

_Diarmuid tried to get up and run, escape from that piercing gaze, but his limbs felt like sunken ships: heavy and swollen, stuck to the floor and left to the mercy of the waves._

_Those eyes blinked and he let out a whimper at the thought of what horrors were to come. He struggled again to move his arms but they were sinking deeper and deeper into the ground, merging with the elements until he felt he could drown in the dirt. He tried to cry out for help but his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He felt tears form upon seeing the fuzzy figure step out from the trees towards him, each footstep resonating with a booming bang through the air, bang bang_ bang

Diarmuid jolted awake with a sharp inhale, limbs flailing and head spinning as his brain slipped out from the dreams grasp and into reality. He blinked rapidly and took in his surroundings, checking the clock on the mantle with bleary eyes to see that he’d been gone for around an hour. He groaned and tried to rub a hand through his hair but realised that he’d managed to entangled himself in the blanket whilst in the throes of his nap. He slumped back down in his armchair and closed his eyes again, frowning and smacking his lips at the horrible taste in his mouth. He was just considering getting up and making a fresh cup of tea when a firm knock came from the front door, startling the young man from his reverie with a frown.

He wasn’t expecting company and it was highly unlikely that someone had stumbled upon their house by chance , so far off the beaten track as it was. He set his sewing down to one side to slide out from the blanket, his body already lamenting the chill outside of his warm nest as he made his way cautiously to the door.

He took a deep breath and flung the door open before yelping at the sight of a large fist that was perilously close to his face. The owner of said fist pulled back suddenly as if struck by lightning.

“Oh!” Diarmuid exclaimed, caught off guard by the sight of the kind stranger from the marketplace. He hadn’t expected him to step foot near the house after the embarrassment he’d caused him, and he felt his face heating with residual mortification as he remembered what had transpired.

The man seemed just as awkward as he felt, shifting on his feet as he stood a few feet from the doorstep as if he was expecting the door to be slammed in his face. He looked uncomfortable; posture hunched in a way that shaved off the full looming height that Diarmuid had caught a glimpse of at the market. His large fingers gripped the strap of a large leather satchel that hung off his shoulder.

“Can I… help you?” Diarmuid asked hesitantly. The hunter nodded, startled out of his own observations as he began to rummage through the satchel. Diarmuid took the opportunity to look him over, noticing that his leathers and cotton shirt were finer and cleaner than what he’d been wearing a few days previous.

The hunter pulled out a fist full of fabric the colour of dry clay and held it out towards the younger man expectantly. Diarmuid’s brows furrowed at the fabric, taking in the man’s hopeful expression. He unravelled the surprisingly soft cotton and noticed a few rather large holes scattered over the shirt.

“ _Oh_ , of course!” Diarmuid said, realisation dawning. “Yes, of course, why don’t you- here, step inside from the cold and I’ll fix you some tea, I can get these sorted for you now if you want.” Diarmuid fumbled with his words as he stepped back to let the man through. He seemed uncertain at first, glancing beyond Diarmuid and into the house, before standing a little taller and cautiously entering and closing the door behind him.

Diarmuid was already at the stove putting more water in the kettle and standing on tiptoes to reach the spare mug from the cupboard. He cursed as the tips of his fingers brushed skimmed the cold ceramic when a shadow fell over him and a wall of warmth sidled up behind him. A large hand deftly picked up the mug and stepped back quickly, the man handing it over to the seamster.

“Thank you.” Diarmuid cleared his very dry throat as the older man shrugged self-consciously. “Feel free to make yourself comfortable while I get this going.” He said, gesturing for the man to sit in his father’s armchair opposite his own by the hearth.

As Diarmuid busied himself with the tea he allowed himself some surreptitious sidelong glances at the hunter. He watched the way he shrugged out of his large leather coat and gently hung it over one of the kitchen chairs. He stepped towards the hearth, rolling up his sleeves over his thick forearms and rubbing his hands together over the warming orange embers.

Only when Diarmuid handed him the mug and sat down in his own armchair did the mute do the same, perching on the old cushion and testing his weight on the ancient wooden legs until he was satisfied that it wouldn’t break.

The image had Diarmuid smiling despite himself, and he took a small sip of his tea to hide it.

He talked with the man until their tea was finished, and he found that he didn’t mind that it was all one-sided. One-sided wasn’t the right term: the trapper was extremely receptive and expressive whenever Diarmuid spoke, giving him his full attention in a way that had the seamster’s cheeks pinkening in hue. He hung on every word, responding in his own unique way that the younger man was growing more fascinated with by the minute.

When Diarmuid reached over for his sewing kit, the man rummaged through his satchel and picked out his small carving nice and a block of wood that had been chipped and whittled down into some kind of curvy rectangular shape. He chipped in the direction of the hearth, brushing the shavings into the embers considerately as Diarmuid worked on fixing his shirt.

As they both worked on their respective projects, Diarmuid found himself chatting and telling him stories of the land and the sea and the town. The older man would nod and laugh silently as his tales, raising Diarmuid’s spirits with every soft smile thrown his way. The conversation would sometimes lull as he focussed on the task at hand, but he found that he didn’t mind the comfortable silence between them.

It was nearing the last stitch as Diarmuid realised that he’d begun to squint over his work, and he glanced towards the window to see that twilight was drawing in.

“Oh my, I don’t know where that time has gone.” Diarmuid yawned, sticking the needle and thread into its poof and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

The hunter looked up from his whittling with a frown, glancing at the small window where the pink hue of dusk was beginning to tint the sky.

He finished the last stitch and bit off the excess thread just as he slipped into his coat and slung his large satchel over his chest. Diarmuid slipped his blanket around his shoulders and stood to face him, and their fingers brushed as the hunter gently took the mended shirt from his outstretched hand.

Diarmuid held his breath as the hunter inspected the stitching with a keen eye, fingers lightly pulling at the seams to test their strength. He nodded, seemingly satisfied with the work and Diarmuid exhaled roughly, a tired but content smile gracing his lips.

The hunter carefully folded the fabric and placed it in his satchel, rummaging around and bringing out a small leather pouch that clinked and jangled. The young man’s eyes widened at the sight of a healthy pile of silver and gold, the glimpse of a ruby and other precious gems he’d only seen adorning the necks of royalty.

He balked when the hunter held out his hand, three gold coins resting in the centre of his scarred palm. The man didn’t seem to be too concerned about the alarming amount that he was gifting, brow furrowed as he observed Diarmuid’s bewilderment.

“That’s… that’s far too generous of you,” Diarmuid fumbled out, gaze caught on the shiny pieces. The hunter grunted and jingled the coins, impatiently waiting for him to accept them.

The young man’s awe at the offering quickly soured, a horrible suspicion seeping its way inside. He’d never been offered this much, and _especially_ not for his mending skills. A lead weight sank in his stomach at the thought that the man was mocking him, or even worse – that he had somehow _believed_ the filth that spewed from Raymond’s sneering lips.

A very small, traitorous voice reasoned that they _did_ need the money: the tantalising glint of gold was easily enough to tide them over for the season and fix up the cold drafts in the cottage. They wouldn’t have to tighten their belts, could maybe even invest in new equipment. The hunter hadn’t shown any sign of being aggressive or rude, so there was a high chance that he would be gentle in whatever he was asking for...

Diarmuid snapped that train of thought off as quickly as he could, filled with a sudden nausea. They were poor, that was true, but they weren’t desperate.

He was just… _disappointed_ that this stranger, who had seemed so genuine and kind despite his silence, had turned out to be just like Raymond and his cronies. He’d thought maybe the quiet rapport they’d shared had been the beginning of a budding companionship, but he’d obviously been mistaken.

The hunter’s eyes widened at the dismayed expression that Diarmuid couldn’t conceal, and he hastily reached into his pouch and counted out three more gold coins. The seamster’s heart sank and his eyes narrowed at what could only be an attempt to ridicule him.

“I might be poor, _sir_ , but I don’t appreciate your mockery.” He spat, stomping to the front door as he felt his anger mounting. “Despite what you may have heard from Raymond, I can assure you that you won’t be getting those types of services from me.”

He threw the heavy door wide open and gestured for the man to step through, trying to suppress the shiver from the cold air that seeped through the gap. It was one thing to be mocked in public by the likes of De Merville, but he wouldn’t tolerate it in his own home.

The darker man stood still with a look of pure confusion as he glanced between Diarmuid, the open door, and the coins still in his hand. In a blink of an eye the expression morphed into one of horror, his eyes widening and his head shaking quickly as he clumsily pocketed the coins. He opened his mouth as if to speak but only a wisp of breath came through, and he furrowed his brows in frustration, eyes searching the room and lighting up as they landed on the kitchen table.

Diarmuid watched him warily as the older man stepped across and grabbed a loose piece of paper from under a pile of shirts, grasping a pencil in his fist and jaggedly scribbling something. When he was done, he threw the pencil down and quickly moved to stand in front of the seamster. He held out the piece of paper with a look of panic, and Diarmuid cautiously reached out his free hand to take it.

_For the shert_ , it read. _Very fine werk and preyes I’v seen in sity– nothing mor, you hav my werd_.

“I…” Diarmuid began, cheeks heating as he repeated the words in his head. He looked up to see the mute standing tense, waiting for his reply with bated breath and an earnest look in his eyes.

The seamster cleared his throat and looked back down, his thumb stroking over the rough paper. The words were written with such sincerity that he felt the last embers of anger die a cold death as quickly as they'd sparked, and a wave of relief followed by guilt swiftly overtook him at how quick he was to judge.

He heard the older man shifting around and something clink, and he broke free from his thoughts just in time to see the mute fastening his coin purse as he quickly sped past him and fled outside. Diarmuid caught the glimmer of gold on the kitchen table and the realisation of what had happened had him leaping into action. 

“Wait!” Diarmuid called frantically to the retreating figure.

The mute stopped in his tracks and appeared to brace himself before turning to face him. One fist curled around the strap of his bag so tightly Diarmuid could see the whites of his knuckles even in the twilight. His expression was blank, but his body seemed to be coiled defensively. Something about the sight had Diarmuid’s heart aching, as if the man was more used to hostility than kindness. He thought about his own presumptions, how quick to judge he had been when he had been shown nothing but respect. He wondered how often it was that the gentle man's lack of speech led him into the wrong situation, had given people the wrong idea.

“I'm so sorry,” he continued, his heart racing in his chest. “I just... I'm sorry, I misunderstood. I believe you.”

The dark haired man let out a long breath and the tension in his stance seemed to disappear, his shoulders relaxing and his posture unfurling. He smiled, a little shaky but full of relief, and nodded.

“I… well, I had a really lovely afternoon, and if you’re not busy,” Diarmuid spoke quickly, confidence bolstered, “maybe you could stop by for lunch tomorrow?”

Brown eyes widened briefly before he nodded once more, his smile growing a little steadier.

Diarmuid’s own smile was all teeth for a blinding second before he caught himself.

“Alright,” he said, wrapping his blanket a little tighter around his shoulders. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, friend.”

The man's eyes sparkled in delight as he placed a hand on his chest and tipped his head before turning back to the path and continuing his journey home.

The young man stood and watched him leave until he disappeared past the small hill that separated them from the rest of the world. Closing the door and stepping back into the warmth, he passed the kitchen table and noticed something next to the single gold coin. His face creased in joy and a surge of newfound affection burst in his chest as he carefully picked up the object, turning it over in his fingers and biting his lip to contain his smile. He let out a happy sigh and brought the delicately carved wooden fish to his breast before slipping it into his pocket.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That man… no matter which direction his mind took, his thoughts always led him straight back. It had barely been a week since they’d known one another, and yet he couldn’t stop the giddy smile that overtook him whenever he thought about their companionship.
> 
> -
> 
> surprise update as i try to get back into writing! Hope you enjoy :)

Over the next few days, Diarmuid slowly realised he’d fallen into quite a refreshing routine.

The trapper would arrive at midday, satchel slung over his shoulder and a smile that grew softer with each passing day. Diarmuid would usher him inside and away from the misty rain that had rolled in from the waves, pouring them a large mug of tea that he’d been brewing especially.

The older man would accept everything he was handed with a gracious nod, only sitting down in his armchair once Diarmuid had finished flitting around the kitchen to finish preparing their lunch.

The first day Diarmuid had balked at the sight of the largest fresh pheasant that had potentially ever lived, plucked and ready for the pot… only to find that they didn’t possess a pot or even an oven big enough for such a bird. The trapper had grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck ruefully, but Diarmuid had smiled and patted his hand, suggesting that perhaps a rabbit or even a fish would be wiser for the next time.

The trapper had blinked at him for a moment before nodding, reaching over hesitantly to rest his hand over Diarmuid’s own. When Diarmuid had opened the door the next day, he’d quirked a thick brow and handed him a carefully wrapped parcel containing a fresh plump river trout, just enough for two.

Despite the bearded man’s continued silence, Diarmuid felt like they’d shared so much about each other. The curious youth couldn’t stop himself from asking questions about the larger world outside of their small village, the older man’s travels and background, his favourite types of food... When a nod or a shrug wouldn’t suffice, the man would scribble onto the small notepad that Diarmuid had found squirreled away in one of his trunks. His words were broken on the page, but Diarmuid would sit with his chin resting in his palm and watch him as he delicately curved the letters with his pencil. The young man found himself enormously endeared when the elder would worry at his lip and furrow his brows in concentration.

He was obviously uncomfortable with his skill, but the idea that he was pushing through for Diarmuid had something soft unfurling in his chest and a blush rising to his cheeks.

To the seamster’s surprise, some of his favourite moments by far were those spent in silence. He had long grown to associate silence with solitude, the times when his father had gone out to the ocean and his friends hadn’t been able to visit. He had never gotten used to the feeling of an empty house, how the creaking and groaning of the wooden beams had him jolting in the night-time like a child.

To be able to share the space around the crackling fireplace with the mute as they both tended to their wares was… comforting. Diarmuid adjusting the garments he’d been commissioned, and the trapper switching between checking the quality of the furs he’d caught and carving the small animals out of never-ending small blocks of wood he seemed to have stashed on his person.

One very unremarkable afternoon the mute had arrived earlier than usual, and Diarmuid had been outside chopping more logs for the fire. He’d built up a sweat in no time despite the overcast day, struggling with the old axe that had seen better days and the larger bits of lumber that his father has managed to find before his departure. He’d shed his coat and layers until only his thin undershirt remained, draping them haphazardly over a stump as he’d swung and hacked at the unforgiving oak. Diarmuid had paused to catch his breath and shake the ache from his shoulders, looking up just in time to catch sight of the older man standing just behind the small wooden fence that separated the garden. He noticed that his fists were clenched tightly around the strap of his satchel, and his eyes gazing at Diarmuid’s heaving chest and forearms bared to the elements.

The younger man’s breathing hitched as he watched those dark eyes drift up and over the curve of his shoulders, the hollow dip of his collarbones, lingering somewhere around his parted lips and ruby cheeks.

Something about the way he was being studied had his pulse thumping in his ears. He licked his dry lips and the mute’s eyes followed the movement.

Diarmuid cleared his very parched throat and the hazy spell surrounding the trapper seemed to break. He watched as he closed his eyes briefly, brow furrowed before the gazes finally locked. Diarmuid couldn’t read his stony expression or the thoughts that hid behind it, but he saw that those large knuckles were still clenching around his leather strap.

There was a long moment where they simply watched each other, waiting for a sign on how to proceed. For the first time since their tragic miscommunication Diarmuid had felt uncomfortable, exposed in a way that had nothing to do with his attire. He’d always been swaddled in clothing and hates and large scarves whenever he could, but having his lean body on show in front of the broader and stronger man had something close to shame twisting in his gut.

Despite his heavy breathing and queasy stomach, the younger man had managed a shaky smile and a breathy greeting. It seemed to do the trick as the mute exhaled and smiled, there and gone again, before his gaze turned on the small pile of logs and the dwindling stack of lumber next to them.

Before Diarmuid could say anything else, his brawny friend had already stepped past the gate and shucked his satchel from his shoulder, dropping it gently next to the post. His already rosy cheeks flushed as he watched the man shrugged off his large leather coat, followed by his thicker jumper and shirt that he wore as a second skin. The hat and fingerless gloves came off in the process until he was left in his thin undershirt that pulled at his torso as if it were about to burst. He rolled up his sleeves, leaving the younger man gulping at the sight of his hairy, scarred arms.

Diarmuid’s eyes had widened as he attempted to conceal the squeak that escaped him when the broad man stepped over, holding out a large hand expectantly. It took him longer than he would comfortably admit to realise that he was gesturing for the axe that was held tightly against Diarmuid’s chest. Any other time would see him vehemently protesting the offer to continue in his chore, but the expanse of unearthed skin that was before him had him laughing nervously and almost slapping the handle into the outstretched palm in his haste.

The mute’s eyes glimmered as he tilted his head in thanks, before gesturing to Diarmuid’s overcoat. Suddenly realising that the shaking in his limbs was not purely due to his nerves, the younger man had fumbled over his thanks and hastened to where it lay, slipping his thin jumper and coat over his chilled extremities.

He heard the thud and crack of wood splintering, and he turned his head just in time to see the mute throwing half of the log onto the pile before bending to pick up another, stabilising it on the stump. His palms grew sweaty where they were shoved deep in his pockets as he watched the way the larger man’s muscles flexed and moved under his thin shirt as he swung the axe over his head and broke the stump in half almost effortlessly.

He’d very quickly muttered something about making tea and had fled into his cottage, leaning heavily on the closed door and trying to steady his pounding heart. He’d gone through the motions of added the tea leaves to the pot and setting the water to boil, but his mind lingered on the thumps of splitting wood outside.

The redness in his cheeks had faded around the same time that the tea was ready, and he had poured it with steady hands into their mugs. He was about to take it outside when the door had opened, the mute stamping his shoes on the mat and his arms laden with logs and his gear.

His dark hair had been damp, curled around his endearingly large ears, and there was a pleasant flush to his cheeks that had Diarmuid surreptitiously leaning on the counter and busying himself with preparing their lunch.

The vivid images of the mute’s helping hand had lingered in his mind throughout the evening and into the next morning, and he’d awoken feeling inexplicably overwhelmed.

He had barely the time to dwell as it happened to be the last day his father was due back, and Diarmuid could feel his excitement growing with every hour that passed. He scrubbed the house as well as he could, busying himself with chores as his eyes flickered to the clock at regular intervals.

He could arrive at any time before dusk, and the seamster couldn’t help but hope that his father had had better luck in his haul than the previous few months. Diarmuid had squirreled away the gold coins the mute had left on his kitchen table, sticking them with the rest of his paltry treasures in the secret nook of his bedroom, but he knew that despite this kindness it wouldn’t be enough for the long term.

It wasn’t just the money, though. His father’s passions lay with the ocean, and each empty line and barren net had seemed to leave another wrinkle around his eyes. This year had been harsher than any they’d so far seen, between the crumbling state of their home and the unforgiving seasons, but Diarmuid knew that their fortune had surely started to change. His own certainly had, beginning with the meeting of his new friend.

He sighed from his armchair, fingers moving listlessly over his fabrics as he stared out of the kitchen window to the lashing rain and choppy seas that lay beyond.

That man… no matter which direction his mind took, his thoughts always led him straight back. It had barely been a week since they’d known one another, and yet he couldn’t stop the giddy smile that overtook him whenever he thought about their companionship.

He had been worried at first that his own enthusiasm would frighten the silent stranger off, but his fears had gone unwarranted. The man came to him every day on the dot, and no matter how silly his line of questioning or how silent their afternoons were, he’d always left with a smile and his head held high. After the wood cutting incident the previous afternoon there had been a sort of… tension, something that Diarmuid had few words for. There was a heat in the other man’s eyes as their fingers brushed when he passed him his tea, but there was a shyness to their movements. Averted gazes and shy but reciprocated smiles that had warmed his heart and stilled his nerves…

He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, trying to focus on the dress he had been adjusting but giving up with a frustrated harrumph. He wouldn’t get anything done at this rate, and the thread wouldn’t pay for itself.

He’d just stoked the fire and filled the kettle when a familiar knock had him biting his lip to stop the large smile that pulled at him. He rushed to the entrance, pulling his blanket around his shoulders and running a hand through his curls in a last effort to tame them before tugging open the door.

The mute was stood on the doorstep, clothes and hair dripping wet but smiling as soon as Diarmuid came into view. The younger man couldn’t help but mirror it, and they spent a moment just smiling at one another before he realised exactly how cold and damp it was outside.

He tutted and ushered the taller man inside quickly, throwing a small frown at the lashing rain and distant rumbles on thunder before he shut and locked the door behind him.

The man was trying his best not to shake the droplets all over the floor as he shucked his wet things, draping them neatly over the rickety chair closest to the stove. Diarmuid’s throat went dry as he watched him pulled his jumper over his head, his undershirt riding up and showing his toned stomach, covered in thick, coarse head that led down, down…

He blinked and cleared his throat, convinced that he was coming down with something with how dry it was, and hurried over to his linen cabinet. He passed the trapper a couple of towels that had woefully seen better days but the man accepted them graciously, tipping his head with a soft smile as he rubbed one over his sodden locks.

“You really should know better than to walk around on a day like this,” Diarmuid reprimanded playfully as he busied himself with pouring the tea. “You’ll catch your death, for sure.”

The mute scoffed and quirked a brow, gesturing at his thick overcoat that had probably seen years of storms.

“Yes, yes, I know you can look after yourself,” Diarmuid sighed, passing a mug over into the man’s free hand and trying not to shiver at the electric shock when their fingers brushed. Their gazes caught and his eyes softened when the mute’s thumb brushed over his own. He blushed as the words he’d been swirling around in his head slipped through without his permission. “I can’t help worrying about the people dear to me.”

The mute’s eyes widened and he inhaled sharply, body going still. Diarmuid’s gaze drifted self-consciously to where their fingers still touched around the warm mug, and every second of inaction had his stomach churning in embarrassment.

He could play it off, he could do that. The words were vague enough to mean anything and anyone, any calibre of relationship, but he knew without doubt how expressive he was. His heart remained perpetually on his sleeve, and he had never found it easy to conceal his feelings.

Maybe they could just pretend and carry on as if he’d never spoken, he thought to himself as he felt his eyes start to water shamefully. Or maybe he’d overstepped, and the mute had only been looking for friendship, and Diarmuid had turned it into something awkward and confusing and…

He heard the towel drop to the floor before he felt calloused fingers gently curling around his chin, tilting his head upwards. Diarmuid blinked back the blurriness to find the mute staring at him in what he could only describe as awe.

He looked so painfully hopeful, brows creased as his big brown eyes flicked between Diarmuid’s own and his parted lips. His other hand pulled away briefly to place the mug on the side without looking, before it too came to cradle the side of his jaw. His thumb grazed delicately over his cheek and Diarmuid left out a shaky sigh, eyelids heavy as he basked in his touch. The mute exhaled raggedly as he studied him, taking in every detail as if it were his last chance.

The thought had Diarmuid’s heart aching and he gathered up the remainder of his courage to reach up and cup the back of the older man’s neck. The mute’s eyes softened in understanding and he allowed himself to be pulled down.

The sound Diarmuid made when their lips finally touched was not something he would ever admit to. He imagined that the stronger man would be forceful or staggering, but he knew better than that; the mute had been nothing but gentle, from the carving of his wooden animals to the writing to the cupping of Diarmuid’s porcelain mugs. He was made soft because of his stature, and Diarmuid’s heart once again pounded fiercely and uncontrollably in his chest as those lips moved delicately across his own.

Something unfurled within him as the older man’s palm reached down to cup the small of his back, tugging them ever so slightly closer. Diarmuid shivered and pressed closer, breaking free when the need to breathe became unavoidable. He pulled back but rested their foreheads together, breathy laughter escaping him as the older man continued to pepper kisses where his smile turned up the corners of his lips.

“Do you…?” Diarmuid trailed off on a whisper, twirling his fingers through those damps curls as the mute continued to press lingering kisses to his cheek. “I mean, is this…?”

The mute finally pried himself away from his flushed skin until their half-lidded gazes met once more. He smoothed a few of Diarmuid’s wayward curls away from his eyes, drawing the tip of his finger over the sensitive shell of his ear and gulping at the shiver that ran through the younger man. The hand drifted downwards until it was rested over the seamster’s galloping heart, and there it stayed.

He looked calmer than Diarmuid felt, but the faint flush to his cheeks above his beard spoke loudly of his own desires. His dark eyes were beseeching, trying to convey something that he could not speak.

Diarmuid felt those stubborn tears still clinging to his eyelashes as he tried valiantly to blink them back. He was just so… _overwhelmed_ , so utterly overjoyed that for the first time in his life he hadn’t read this wrong, and that maybe…

He let is own hand drift down to rest over the mute’s sternum, gasping at the furious pounding he felt beneath his palm. It reassured him that this was mutual, that they both felt the same again…

He nodded his head frantically, pressing their smiles together and hiccoughing a laugh as their teeth clacked together. The mute’s hands quickly cupped both of Diarmuid’s cheeks and guided them into a proper non-lethal kiss, until they were synchronised and leaning against one another intimately.

Diarmuid lost track of time as they met over and over again. He could only keep track of those strong hands that moved over his body, from his cheek to his neck to his hip, sliding over his arms and cradling his wrists as if he couldn’t get enough. Diarmuid felt the same way as his fingertips slid into the open collar of his shirt, groaning at finally getting to feel that warm skin that lay beneath.

The mute’s chest rumbled appreciatively and Diarmuid yelped as those hands slid down to the backs of his thighs to lift him in one fluid movement. He giggled and clung to the older man’s shoulders as he walked them backwards until he deposited Diarmuid on the kitchen table. It creaked beneath his weight but Diarmuid paid it no heed as he curled his hands into the man’s shirt to drag him into another kiss. He gasped as he felt a tongue slip against his own, and he took the initiative to move his own in tandem.

He unconsciously leaned backwards until the mute had to slap a hand beside them so that they wouldn’t topple over. Diarmuid couldn’t care if they fell or if the roof caved in, focussed only on the ways their bodies were touching and moving against one another.

“I want…” Diarmuid gasped out, and the mute nodded before he could even finish his thoughts. _Anything_ , the movement spoke. _Everything_.

Diarmuid gaped in overjoyed disbelief leaning in for another kiss just as a loud and frantic knocking started on his door. Their heads swivelled towards the sounds, frozen in their position on the wobbling table as the knocks died off and the door handle jangled and twisted.

The young man felt the mute’s shoulders tense up suddenly, poised to strike like predators he’d seen in the wilds. It was such a sudden change that it has Diarmuid’s foggy brain reeling.

“Diarmuid!” Came a muffled cry from the other side of the cottage’s entrance, and Diarmuid’s heart froze. He quickly tapped at the older man’s shoulders and he was relieved when he removed himself as quickly as he could, steadying Diarmuid with a hand on his elbow as he stumbled to his feet. When he made towards the door his hand shot out to his forearm, stopping him in his tracks.

“It’s okay,” Diarmuid whispered, stroking a thumb over the worried brow on is handsome face. “It’s alright, love.”

The knocking began once more as the mute nodded, pressing a last kiss to his temple before he let go. Diarmuid took a deep breath as he jogged over and opened the door with a welcoming smile.

“Cathal! I didn’t expect that you…” He began, but all his bubbling pretense faded at the harrowed expression on his friend’s face. The man’s brows were furrowed in fear and despair as he clutched at his sturdy overcoat against the pouring rain.

“What is it?” Diarmuid asked. Cathal’s eyes darted to where the mute was moving to stand behind Diarmuid, but they didn’t linger. The older man gaped, seemingly speechless.

“Cathal, tell me. What’s happened?” Diarmuid implored, voice breaking as his hand clutched at the open door.

“Diarmuid…” he finally spoke, sympathy lacing his tone in a way that had dread pooling in the young man’s chest. “It’s your da… we found his boat but... I'm sorry, but your da... there's no sign of him.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Diarmuid imagined shipwrecks, he thought of debris, broken planks, seaweed strewn around the deck and the sides.
> 
> But aside from a few tendrils of seaweed and a few scratches along the sides, the boat itself appeared right as rain. It had been found docked just a couple of miles north of their cottage, and he’d been told that there were still a few tins and supplies in the hold, oil in the lanterns, nothing to suggest foul play. It looked like it had purposefully been steered to shore, the crew had disembarked, and there it had remained.
> 
> It hadn’t made any sense. Not to the locals, not to the council, and most definitely not to Diarmuid.

Diarmuid had been in a daze when he’d received the news, disbelief and shock and a myriad of other emotions almost bringing him to his knees. The mute had been there in a flash to wrap an arm around him, steer him to the kitchen seat as Cathal had flitted around the room behind them in search of Diarmuid’s winter things.

Those large hands had cupped his cheeks and stroked through his curls to soothe the young man, and he’d been so grateful to be anchored. When Cathal had returned with Diarmuid’s outerwear, the mute had guided his arms into the sleeves and had buttoned him up as quickly as he could. He’d only stepped back to grab his own things, but Cathal had quickly stopped him.

“Keep the fires burning,” he had instructed firmly, and the bearded man frowned deeply. He glanced over at where Diarmuid was trying to slip his shaking hands into his fingerless gloves, before leaning in to whisper to the mute. “I don’t know how long we’ll be, and he can’t come back to a cold and empty house, do you understand? _We’ve_ never met, but you and Diarmuid seem… close.” He eyed him pointedly and the mute nodded sharply, eyes flicking over to where the younger man was sniffling into his sleeve.

Cathal had hummed in an unspoken agreement as he stepped around the taller man and drew Diarmuid gently to his feet.

The mute had wrapped his own scarf around the younger man’s neck and gently brushed the curls out of his eyes forehead before Cathal had ushered them away.

When Diarmuid imagined shipwrecks, he thought of debris, broken planks, seaweed strewn around the deck and the sides.

But aside from a few tendrils of seaweed and a few scratches along the sides, the boat itself appeared right as rain. It had been found docked just a couple of miles north of their cottage, and he’d been told that there were still a few tins and supplies in the hold, oil in the lanterns, nothing to suggest foul play. It looked like it had purposefully been steered to shore, the crew had disembarked, and there it had remained.

It hadn’t made any sense. Not to the locals, not to the council, and most definitely not to Diarmuid.

A million and one questions burned in his brain as he pulled his coat closer around him against the brisk wind of the open beach, watching the law officials rummage through the cabinets and look over the deck.

Where were the other fishermen his father had joined with? If they’d all disembarked, where were the tracks? Why hadn’t he heard word from them?

 _Where was his father_?

He fought against his instincts to reprimand the officers for being so heavy handed with his da’s things as it was all loaded onto a small cart. It would be heading back with Diarmuid, as was his right, and the boat would join them soon after. He’d insisted on sailing back himself but had been told quite sternly that they needed to make sure there were no cracks or holes in the hull before she was declared seaworthy. Until then, she would remain moored alone on the beach miles from home.

The shock of the afternoon hadn’t truly dawned on him until he’d seen the de Merville’s carriage pull up alongside the crowd. The Baron himself had stumbled out to wander over to where the younger man stood next to the lifeless boat, eying it with barely concealed disdained. He’d very loudly offered his hand and his support with a smile that almost reached his eyes, and Diarmuid had been stunned into silence. It had been Cathal that had thanked the bemused gentleman and steered the very brief conversation, and the seamster had never been happier to consider him a friend.

The shopkeeper had stood by his side until Rua had arrived, giving the man the opportunity to check on his shop with the promise that he’d meet Diarmuid the next morning.

A heavy blanket was draped over Diarmuid’s shoulders and he was drawn out of his thoughts to find Rua standing next to him with a grim, consoling smile. He felt his chin quiver and traitorous tears burning at his eyes, and the older man wrapped an arm around his shoulder with a weary sigh. The blacksmith held him close as they watched the last few things get loaded onto the rickety cart and the gaggle of townsfolk start to thin out. A few of the villagers approached and offered their support to the seamster, which he accepted with a nod and a weak almost-smile.

“Oi!” Rua called out once everything had been loaded, catching the driver’s attention. "I’ll take over from here.”

The driver scoffed and patted at the donkey’s neck, adjusting the reins and straps. “Away with you man, I’ve already been paid for delivery.”

“Off with you I said! Unless you want to be paying full price for horseshoes in the future, I suggest you head home.” The driver scowled in annoyance, but he didn't seem too averse. Rua reluctantly stepped away from Diarmuid and over to the cart, giving the old ass a good scratch.

“You tell whoever’s paying you that the delivery was done and I’ll bring her back this evening, safe and sound. I’m offering to do your job, take the miracle for what it is.”

The driver sighed and reached over to shake Rua’s hand, grumbling about his livelihood and his children as he headed back towards the town.

And then it was just the two of them. Diarmuid wandered over and stroked the donkey’s flank, fingers slipping soothingly through the soft fur as his eyes lingered on his father’s boat.

“It doesn’t make any sense…” Diarmuid mumbled mostly to himself, tilting his head to rest against the sturdy animal. “If he was this close to town, why wouldn’t he have come straight home?”

Rua hummed thoughtfully and fiddled with the fittings of the straps on the cart. “It wasn’t here yesterday so he must’ve docked in the night. Could’ve misread the time, wandered for the inn, gotten lost in the dark…”

“You really believe that?” Diarmuid asked, brows raised in disbelief. “My da’, born and bred here, getting lost in these parts? There’s something that just doesn't…”

“There’s men out looking for him, Diarmuid.” The older man asserted, walking around the mare and wrapping into another one-armed hug.

Diarmuid sniffed and shook his head, holding onto the man tightly.

“I should be out there with them, and here I am crying like a child. He could be hurt, or lost, or…” he halted, staring miserably out at the grey tides. “Rua... What do I do if he’s _gone_?” he whispered brokenly.

Rua hushed him sharply as he gently tousled the young man’s damp curls.

“It’s too late in the day to make any ground that the lads already out looking couldn’t, and your da’ll put me in the ground if he knew I let you off by yourself. Whether he’s as pissed as a fart with his fisher friends or stuck on an island in the sun, we’ll find him and we’ll bring him home.” He stated firmly, pulling back to meet the seamster’s gaze. “We’ll bring him home, Diarmuid.”

Diarmuid sniffed one last time as he nodded, wiping his face on the back of his sleeve. They finally separated to hitch onto the front seat of the cart, and began the slow trot towards the cottage.

The front door swung open the moment that the cart stopped outside his rickety gate, and the mute’s shape stood still and silhouetted by the warm amber glow of the hearth.

Rua whistled low and quirked a brow at the rosy-cheeked young man next to him.

“I leave for a month and you find a husband, anything else you want to reveal?” he teased, causing Diarmuid to slap his arm and shuffle his way off the cart. The mute was already at his side, holding his hand as he jumped down and steadying him as he stumbled. Diarmuid could hear Rua grumbling about not receiving the same special treatment as he stepped off the cart, but he paid him no mind.

The blacksmith caught the mute’s eyes and for a moment they sized each other up, each one wary of the stranger in their midst. It lasted only until Diarmuid began sniffling against the cold, the last of the afternoon sun beginning its dip into the horizon.

“Stay for tea, Rua?” The young man asked, and the blacksmith agreed with only a second of hesitation and a long stretch.

“After I’ve set your things down, lad. I have to get this cheeky girl back to town before the big bad carriage man changes his tune.” He said, patting the donkey who brayed in delight.

“I’ll do it, you’ve already done-” Diarmuid stated, started to shuck the blanket around his shoulders but stopping when the mute’s hands pulled it back up. He caught the mute’s eye as the man shook his head and gestured towards the house. Diarmuid could feel his admonishment building but was halted as Rua began unpacking his father’s equipment.

“Between me and your bull,” he heaved one of the crates and shuffled towards the stone shed down the path, “we’ll be done in no time. Get the kettle on lad, I’m gasping.”

Diarmuid looked ready to argue but the mute shook his head once again, running a gentle hand through the young man’s curls before nudging him in the direction of the cottage. Diarmuid sighed heavily and squeezed the broader man’s hand before setting off into the inviting warmth of his home.

When the men walked in barely twenty minutes later, the tea had been brewed and the mugs had been cleaned. Diarmuid stood by the window that overlooked the sea the tides in the distance, fingers clutched around his own un-sipped mug. He only blinked when a large hand wrapped around his elbow and steered him away from the horizon and into the armchair, and there he settled as the men poured their tea.

Rua had quickly realised that the broad-shouldered stranger wasn’t much of a talker, but he filled the silence with plans for the next day’s search party interspersed with his own musings and theories. Diarmuid tried to interject but his thoughts had long since darkened, and he ended up staring into the hearth as his mind circled around to that empty boat.

At the waning sunlight and a finished mug, Rua finally bid his goodbye’s and promised to return the next morning, too bright and too early. He patted the younger man’s shoulder and shook the older man’s hand as the mute saw him out.

“You remember our chat there, friend.” He mumbled to the trapper, who nodded with a grim expression. “Good man. Till tomorrow then.”

The mute shut and bolted the door behind him, and then they were finally alone.

He prodded at the embers of the hearth with the poker as he took his seat in the armchair across from the young man, who seemed a thousand miles away. The older man took a sip of his lukewarm brew, watching Diarmuid closely.

“I…” the young man started after a long while, clearing his throat against his brittle voice. “I’m sorry you were stuck here all afternoon.”

The trapper dismissed it with grunt and a shrug of his shoulders, keenly observing the seamster’s glistening eyes.

“Oh god…” he croaked, staring down at the ripples of tea in his trembling mug. “ _I’m so sorry_ …”

The mute set his mug down and rushed to kneel between the young man’s legs, gently rubbing his shivering hands between his own. Diarmuid let out a shuddering sigh, overwhelmed with the events of the day and the stress of the situation. His da could be out there somewhere in the night, injured and alone and lost, and what kind of son was he? To stay behind in the warmth of their cottage while his father stumbled around in the dark, God only knows where he could be, and _what kind of son did that make him_ …

The mute’s lips crashed against his own, halting his thought process and oh, some of that must’ve slipped through. Diarmuid whimpered as a large hand came to rest on the nape of his neck, warmth seeping into his skin and anchoring him in place.

The older man pulled back, watching Diarmuid through kind and compassion eyes. Diarmuid had already seen his faire share of varying levels of sympathy that day, but something in that dark gaze spoke of a deeper understanding. An old pain. A shared grief that had Diarmuid’s chin quivering and his heart clenching in his own sympathies for the man kneeling before him.

That large hand swiped upwards to curl around his jaw, fingers gently brushing errant curls behind his ear. He shook his head firmly, his mouth opening to speak and brow furrowing when he seemingly remembered that he couldn’t. His eyes darted for the papers and pencil that were usually on the side table next to them, exhaling through his nose when none could be found.

He focussed on Diarmuid, nostrils flaring as the young man watched him think. It came to a head when his expression softened, and he leaned in to press his lips against the seamster’s rosy cheek. Diarmuid’s eyes slipped shut at the feeling, honing on the ticklish bristles of his beard and his wind-chapped lips. He felt them moving, initially basking in the small kisses before realising that there was a pattern.

He concentrated on the feeling, the pursing and the hot breath sweeping against his already overheated skin, absorbing the words as they were pressed into him.

 _Good_ , the mute was miming, repeating the words over and over as that strong hand stroked over his own steadier fingers while the other brushed through his curls. _You’re good._

They stayed like that for some time, until the firelight began dwindling and the night outside finally consumed the day. When Diarmuid’s limbs started growing heavier and his mind had begun to numb from the anxiety of the day, the mute gently eased him out of the armchair and into his arms like a bride. Diarmuid tried to protest but his tongue was as weary as his eyes, and he curled his fingers into the man’s jumper as he was effortlessly carried upstairs.

The mute only hesitated when they reached the landing, eying up the doors on either side before Diarmuid sleepily pointed to one. The bearded man nudged the door open with his shoulder and spared a brief glance at his surroundings before focussing on the bed.

There were maps and documents littering an old desk in the corner, dozens of books lining the shelves, a small pile of equipment by the window. The room smelled a little fusty as if it hadn’t been used in a while, and he realised quite quickly that it wasn’t Diarmuid’s room at all.

He deposited the exhausted young man gently on top of the covers, wrapping them over instead of pulling them out from under him. He took care to remove his old shoes and threadbare socks, placing them neatly beside the bed. Glancing back up, his heart ached as he watched the fisherman’s son burrow and bury his nose in his father’s sheets.

He gingerly sat on the edge of the creaky wooden frame and reached a hand up to brush through Diarmuid’s curls comfortingly. The younger man sighed and pushed into the touch, and they stayed like that until his breathing settled.

When the hand started to disappear Diarmuid’s own shot out to wrap around the wrist, holding it in place as he watched the older man from half-lidded eyes.

“Stay?” he whispered, looking endearingly soft beneath his cocoon. The mute glanced up at the window with a pained expression, clenching his jaw as he shook his head. Diarmuid frowned and let go of his wrist, burrowing it back into the warmth of his covers as he tried to conceal his hurt.

“I… I understand.” He murmured, focussing on empty space on the floor. “I’m sorry, it’s just…”

The mute grunted and shook his head, dipping down to card his fingers through his curls and to press a kiss to his forehead, over his brow, on his cheek. There his lips stagnated, and once again Diarmuid felt them moving rhythmically.

 _Morning_. He could barely make out the word, but it held his wounded heart together like the softest balm. Diarmuid knew a promise when he heard one, and now he knew what it felt like too.

After hearing those heavy footsteps fade and the front door latch behind itself, the word helped him drift off into an exhausted and dreamless sleep.

Hours or minutes may have passed before Diarmuid’s eyes snapped open at the sudden loud crack that reverberated through his room. Disorientated and coiled in his sheets, for a wild moment he believed that the house was crumbling apart around him and he tried to disentangle himself with a wordless yelp. After a frantic glance around the moonlit room, he was relieved to find that there wasn’t a nail out of place.

His heart still pounding as the residuals of his nightmare faded into the dark, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes with a frown. His sleep blurred brain was slow to recognise his surroundings, puzzled as to why he was in his father’s bed when it all came crashing back. He felt tears of sorrow and frustration well up and he exhaled sharply, pushing his palms deeper into his sockets as if that would stem the tide.

His ears finally caught on to the rhythmic tapping of rain against the window and he tried to steady his mind to the sound, when that almighty crack jolted him out of his would-be trance. He blinked the sunspots out of his eyes in time to see the outer shutter swing away, jerking with the tempest outside.

He sighed and dragged himself out of the warm sheets, hissing when his bare feet touched the icy wooden panels. He tiptoed over to the window, taking a deep breath before opening it. Sure enough the whistling of the wind and the roar of the crashing waves echoed loudly through the room, and he winced as he reached out into the icy rain to tie the errant shutter back in place. It took him barely a minute, but once he’d managed to coerce the window his upper half had already been soaked through. Damage done, he shivered and brushed the raindrops from his curls as he contemplated heading back to his own room to dry himself off and try to get some sleep.

A bolt of lightning flashed over the sky and illuminated the outside world below, and he froze in shock at what it had shown.

Far out into the night, he thought he’d caught a glimpse of something near the beach. There wasn’t much to go on, but the long shadow where there was usually sand was unmistakable.

He squinted and wiped the condensation from the window, trying to see anything past the thick black of night and prayed that the clouds would dissipate enough for the moon to shine through.

Another flash of lightning flew against the sky, and his chest seized in fear at the sight of… _something_ in the same spot.

It was something big, and dark, and it seemed like some kind of... He would’ve thought it an animal, but it had been _staring right back at him_. Eyes flashing like a predator’s in the night, crimson and hungry. Motionless.

 _Waiting_.

The rumble of thunder spurred him into action and he clambered quickly over the bed, swinging the door open and practically jumping down the stairs. It was almost pitch black, but he knew his house, and he blindly slammed into the front door and bolted the latch from the inside. His breathing was laboured as his eyes shifted and adapted to the darkness, taking in the shapes of the furniture and the dying embers of the hearth. His heart pounded in his chest, listening sharply for any sounds beyond the patter of rain and the distant crashing waves.

After longer than he would admit to, he triple checked the locks on the door. Once satisfied, he hurried up the stairs, and after a moments’ hesitation he dipped back into his father’s room and latched the door behind him. He stripped off his sodden shirt and pulled an old jumper from chest of drawers. He inhaled deeply and filled his lungs with the soothing scent of his da before he finally, carefully, slipped back into bed.

Sleep wouldn’t find him for a long time, but when his body finally succumbed to the exhaustion, it was filled with looming shadows and piercing red eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very quick one as I attempt to keep the plot going, but I hope you enjoy! Trying my hand at inserting new characters orgnanically but let me know if it doesn't work haha 
> 
> Thanks to everyone for their interest! I will be replying to your comments soon, I promise! x


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